


The Worth of a Cup of Tea

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Backstory, Childhood, F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon, Swearing, Verbal Abuse, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: Was love meant to bruise?Exploring young Lucille's relationship with her parents and Thomas.
Relationships: Lucille Sharpe & James Sharpe, Lucille Sharpe & Thomas Sharpe, Lucille Sharpe/Thomas Sharpe
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	The Worth of a Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This was for a little exercise I'm trying out where I write a short fic for random fandoms, characters and prompts, (I'll post the details on tumblr if I find I'm able to to continue it consistently).  
> The first one I got was: Fandom: Crimson Peak. Character: Lucille. Prompt: "Worth". Word Goal/Limit: 1000 words. 
> 
> I apologize for any inaccuracies! I didn't have time to rewatch the movie before I finished this, and part of the point of this exercise is to write + post things quickly, and not let my perfectionism get in the way too much. Bear in mind that I may go back and edit this later!
> 
> WARNING: Depictions of abuse, swearing

He was beating her again. 

The little girl looked through the keyhole, but she saw no wonderland, no funny rabbits or talking flowers. 

There was a red king, and he was standing over his queen with a raised fist, and a callous tongue, telling her how worthless she was, how she couldn’t even make tea right. 

Said tea set was lying half smashed on the floor, and Lucille didn’t think her mother was the one who broke it. 

She wondered if the white king ever beat his queen. If others’ parents kissed each other, and hugged each other, and said I love you. If this was how people in love were supposed to act.

Was love supposed to bruise?

Was love meant to be be monstrous?

Her father stood back up to his full height, and Lucille pried her eyes away, tiptoeing hurriedly back up the staircase to the attic and shut the door, careful to do so quietly. 

Thomas was sitting on the floor with a block of wood, carving something, concentrating very hard, his black hair messy over his eyes. 

She didn’t think so. 

She loved Thomas, and she didn’t want to hurt him. In fact, she wanted to be very gentle with him indeed. No, more than that, she wanted to shield him from everything that might try to hurt him. This love didn’t bruise. She wouldn’t tell him he was worthless, or smash the tea sets if he made it wrong. The thought of him suffering was painful to her. Was that what love was? I-hurt-when-you-hurt? Was love something aggressive, something that you did to others? Or was it something passive, something that happened to you? 

She thought of telling him _he’s hurting her again_ , but thought better of it. Thomas didn’t need to know. That knowledge would cause him pain, after all. She wasn’t going to make him sad. 

She reached up her hand to run it through his hair, but halted when she heard thudding footsteps, worse than God and Satan knocking at her door.

The door opened, the forceful sound worse than any demon’s roar.

She didn’t meet his gaze, as if not seeing him would make him disappear. 

“Lucille?” he barked. 

“Yes, Father?” she said softly. 

“Do you think you might be able to make yourself useful for half a moment and get your dear father his tea?”

“Yes, Father,” she quickly stood up, keeping her head down. 

She tried to give him a wide berth, but when she made to move past him he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. 

“A woman of Crimson Peak keeps her head high.”

“Yes, Father,” tears were welling her eyes, but that blue was sharp as a knife. When he let go she kept her head stiffly up, like a scarecrow on a stake. 

“Make sure you don’t fuck it up, Lucille.”

“Yes, Father.”

“This is what you’re good for.” He added. “You know you’ll be bringing tea to a wealthy husband some day. Best get it right now.”

“Yes, Father.”

She held her breath as she exited, trying to cage her tears as she rushed down the stairs in her little blue dress. When she reached the drawing room she saw her mother lying on the floor. Lucille moved to go towards her.

“Take care not to dawdle, Lucille.” The words were a threat. 

“No, Father.” She started to lower her head but put it on that stake again. 

She entered the kitchen and found the tea was still warm on the stove. But she was sure it was too cool, or too hot, or not strong enough, or not weak enough, so she dumped it out, grabbed a new pot, and remade it. When she put the tea canisters back in their place, her fingers lingered. 

It would be so easy to take those poisonous plants they had found the other day, grind them up, and put them into one of those canisters. No one would tell the difference except in taste, and by then it would be too late.

She shook her head of the thought, and went over to the cups, pouring out the now-ready tea. Then she gathered it all up on another tray and ascended the stairs of this godforsaken house, her little pattering steps, and the dragging of her dress, like tiny wing beats as she carried the tray upstairs. 

When she came back to the drawing room her father was sitting leisurely on the couch with a newspaper, her mother on the opposite couch with a book. The only thing that betrayed the scene from earlier was that her mother’s hands were shaking. Lucille’s eyes flitted around the room, as she set the tray in front of her father, unable to bear looking at anything besides the ground for too long. 

“There, you see?” he said after taking a sip of the tea. “Maybe one woman in this house can make herself useful. You may go.”

She bowed but as she turned her eyes lingered on her mother. 

“You may _go_ , Lucille.”

She obeyed, fluttering back up to the attic. 

Thomas looked up at her with those big blue eyes, then went back to carving.

Thomas. Her perfect little ray of sunlight in all this dark. Thomas, her prince, locked in his tower. Thomas. Her safety, her sanity, her love. 

She sat on the floor beside him. 

“What do you think I’m worth?” she asked softly. 

Thomas looked up at her with those soft, eyes. So gentle, so unlike her father’s…or her own. 

She brushed his hair behind his ear.

“I think you’re worth a lot more than a stupid cup of tea.” He handed her the carving, it was a little wooden flower. 

Lucille smiled, running her fingers over the grooves in the carving. She thought he was worth a lot more too.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if I like the title, might change it later. Any ideas?
> 
> I know it was their mother who was most abusive to Lucille, and I might decide to rewrite this as their mother later, but it sounded like their father was too, so...
> 
> Also, I can't remember what the tea they make in the movie was..was it fire flowers, or fire berries? Or something else?
> 
> Comments really do make my week!!


End file.
